Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 44

THE WIFE A-LOST.

Since I noo mwore do zee your feace, Up steairs or down below, I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleace, Where flat-bough'd beech do grow: Below the beeches' bough, my love, Where you did never come, An' I don't look to meet ye now, As I do look at hwome.

Since you noo mwore be at my zide, In walks in zummer het, I'll goo alwone where mist do ride, Drough trees a-drippen wet: Below the ran-wet bough, my love, Where you did never come, An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, As I do grieve at home.

Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard Your vace do never sound, I'll eat the bit I can avword, A-vield upon the ground; Below the darksome bough, my love, Where you did never dine, An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, As I at hwome do pine.

Since I do miss your vace an' feace In praer at eventide, I'll pra wi' woone said vace vor greace To goo where you do bide; Above the tree an' bough, my love, Where you be gone avore, An' be a-waten vor me now, To come vor evermwore.

THE THORNS IN THE GEaTE.

Ah! Measter Collins overtook Our knot o' vo'k a-stannen still, Last Zunday, up on Ivy Hill, To zee how strong the corn did look.

An' he stay'd back awhile an' spoke A vew kind words to all the vo'k, Vor good or joke, an' wi' a smile Begun a-plaen wi' a chile.

The zull, wi' iron zide awry, Had long a-vurrow'd up the vield; The heavy roller had a-wheel'd It smooth vor showers vrom the sky; The bird-bwoy's cry, a-risen sh'ill, An' clacker, had a-left the hill, All bright but still, vor time alwone To speed the work that we'd a-done.

Down drough the wind, a-blowen keen, Did gleare the nearly cloudless sky, An' corn in bleade, up ancle-high, 'lthin the geate did quiver green; An' in the geate a-lock'd there stood A p.r.i.c.kly row o' thornen wood Vor vo'k vor food had done their best, An' left to Spring to do the rest.

"The geate," he cried, "a-seal'd wi' thorn Vrom harmvul veet's a-left to hold The bleade a-springen vrom the mwold, While G.o.d do ripen it to corn.

An' zoo in life let us vulvil Whatever is our Meaker's will, An' then bide still, wi' peacevul breast, While He do manage all the rest."

ANGELS BY THE DOOR.

Oh! there be angels evermwore, A-pa.s.sen onward by the door, A-zent to teake our jas, or come To bring us zome--O Mearianne.

Though doors be shut, an' bars be stout, Noo bolted door can keep em out; But they wull leave us ev'ry thing They have to bring--My Mearianne.

An' zoo the days a-stealen by, Wi' zuns a-riden drough the sky, Do bring us things to leave us sad, Or meake us glad--O Mearianne.

The day that's mild, the day that's stern, Do teake, in stillness, each his turn; An' evils at their worst mid mend, Or even end--My Mearianne.

But still, if we can only bear Wi' fath an' love, our pan an' ceare, We shan't vind missen jas a-lost, Though we be crost--O Mearianne.

But all a-took to heav'n, an' stow'd Where we can't weaste em on the road, As we do wander to an' fro, Down here below--My Mearianne.

But there be jas I'd soonest choose To keep, vrom them that I must lose; Your workzome hands to help my tweil, Your cheerful smile--O Mearianne.

The Zunday bells o' yonder tow'r, The moonlight sheades o' my own bow'r, An' rest avore our vier-zide, At evenen-tide--My Mearianne.

VO'K A-COMeN INTO CHURCH.

The church do zeem a touchen zight, When vo'k, a-comen in at door, Do softly tread the long-al'd vloor Below the pillar'd arches' height, Wi' bells a-pealen, Vo'k a-kneelen, Hearts a-healen, wi' the love An' peace a-zent em vrom above.

An' there, wi' mild an' thoughtvul feace, Wi' downcast eyes, an' vaces dum', The wold an' young do slowly come, An' teake in stillness each his pleace, A-zinken slowly, Kneelen lowly, Seeken holy thoughts alwone, In pra'r avore their Meaker's throne.

An' there be sons in youthvul pride, An' fathers weak wi' years an' pan, An' daughters in their mother's tran.

The tall wi' smaller at their zide; Heads in murnen Never turnen, Cheaks a-burnen, wi' the het O' youth, an' eyes noo tears do wet.

There friends do settle, zide by zide, The knower speechless to the known; Their vace is there vor G.o.d alwone To flesh an' blood their tongues be tied.

Grief a-wringen, Ja a-zingen, Pray'r a-bringen welcome rest So softly to the troubled breast.

WOONE RULE.

An' while I zot, wi' thoughtvul mind, Up where the lwonesome Coombs do wind, An' watch'd the little gully slide So crooked to the river-zide; I thought how wrong the Stour did zeem To roll along his ramblen stream, A-runnen wide the left o' south, To vind his mouth, the right-hand zide.

But though his stream do teake, at mill.

An' eastward bend by Newton Hill, An' goo to lay his welcome boon O' daly water round Hammoon, An' then wind off agean, to run By Blanvord, to the noonday zun, 'Tis only bound by woone rule all, An' that's to vall down steepest ground.

An' zoo, I thought, as we do bend Our wa drough life, to reach our end, Our G.o.d ha' gi'ed us, vrom our youth, Woone rule to be our guide--His truth.

An' zoo wi' that, though we mid teake Wide rambles vor our callens' seake, What is, is best, we needen fear, An' we shall steer to happy rest.

GOOD MEaSTER COLLINS.

Aye, Measter Collins wer a-blest Wi' greace, an' now's a-gone to rest; An' though his heart did beat so meek 'S a little child's, when he did speak, The G.o.dly wisdom ov his tongue Wer dew o' greace to wold an' young.

'Twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide, I zot at Brookwell by his zide, Avore the leake, upon the rocks, Above the water's idle shocks, As little plasome weaves did zwim Agean the water's windy brim, Out where the lofty tower o' stwone Did stan' to years o' wind an' zun; An' where the zwellen pillars bore A pworch above the heavy door, Wi' sister sheades a-reachen cool Athirt the stwones an' sparklen pool.

I spoke zome word that meade en smile, O' girt vo'k's wealth an' poor vo'k's tweil, As if I pin'd, vor want ov greace, To have a lord's or squier's pleace.

"No, no," he zaid, "what G.o.d do zend Is best vor all o's in the end, An' all that we do need the mwost Do come to us wi' least o' cost;-- Why, who could live upon the e'th 'Ithout G.o.d's gft ov ar vor breath?

Or who could bide below the zun If water didden rise an' run?

An' who could work below the skies If zun an' moon did never rise?

Zoo ar an' water, an' the light, Be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right, Than all the goold the darksome cla Can ever yield to zunny da: But then the ar is roun' our heads, Abroad by day, or on our beds; Where land do gi'e us room to bide, Or seas do spread vor ships to ride; An' He do zend his waters free, Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea: An' mornen light do blush an' glow, 'Ithout our tweil--'ithout our ho.

"Zoo let us never pine, in sin, Vor gifts that ben't the best to win; The heaps o' goold that zome mid pile, Wi' sleepless nights an' peaceless tweil; Or manor that mid reach so wide As Blackmwore is vrom zide to zide, Or kingly swa, wi' life or death, Vor helpless childern ov the e'th: Vor thease ben't gifts, as He do know, That He in love should vu'st bestow; Or else we should have had our sheare O'm all wi' little tweil or ceare.

"Ov all His choicest gifts, His cry Is, 'Come, ye moneyless, and buy.'

Zoo blest is he that can but lift His prayer vor a happy gift."